Emails
by Simon920
Summary: Dick Grayson receives some weird stuff on his computer.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**E-mails**

Classes were over for the day and Dick was just as glad. He had enough on his mind without having to think about the history of Western Finance right now—or ever, if there was any justice in the world. Dropping his knapsack on the bed, he booted up his laptop and opened his mail. Sure enough, just what he'd been half expecting; there it was again, just sitting there in his in box. It was another e-mail from Urfriend, the third one this week and he still didn't know who it could actually be from.

Sure he had ideas but none of them had panned out yet and he frowned at the damn thing just waiting for him to click on 'open'.

It was almost like it was taunting him.

"A convenience store in New Carthage will be robbed at 11:07 tonight. The clerk will be shot."

The e-mails had started about a month now, always anonymous, always accurate. If he figured out what location they were referring and got there before the robbery or assault or attempted rape occurred he'd receive a follow up message. "Good." No more, no less.

If he guessed wrong and went to the wrong gas station or the wrong park bench he'd find "Do better."

He called Barbara, hoping she might have an idea he'd overlooked. "They were arrive seemingly randomly, pinpointing some crimes, ignoring others with little rhyme or reason and if there's any kind of connection between the targeted crimes, I've yet to find it."

"Is it Bruce? You know this sounds like the kind of thing he might do to see if you're paying attention."

"It's not Bruce, that was my first thought. It's not one of the Titans. I don't think it's another vigilante."

"Who has your e-mail address?"

"A lot of people have Dick Grayson's, especially here on campus; other students I have to work with, every professor, the school itself. It's published in the student directory."

"Which, I'm assuming, could be had if someone wanted it badly enough."

"Obviously."

"Okay, so is this person friend or foe? Start with that."

"I know, I've gone through everyone I can think of and while there are a bunch of people around here who may want to mess with my head, I don't know of anyone who thinks I'm Robin and that would be the only reason to send me stuff about upcoming crimes."

"Security leak, little boy."

He pushed down the flare of anger, hating it when Barbara did that; when she patronized him and went out of her way to try to make him feel like an idiot. "Or not. I haven't ruled out someone from the community."

"Well, good luck with it and watch your back. If you need any help..."

"No, thanks. I'll handle it."

"See that you do, Small Stuff."

Annoyed, he hung up the phone. It was probably someone on campus. Maybe. Certainly someone in the New Carthage area and likely someone associated with Hudson University. Probably. He hadn't figured it out yet and it was getting on his nerves.

He'd tried a number of times to simply e-mail whoever it was back and demand to know who they were, why they wouldn't just talk to him in person or on the phone and let him know how he/she knew about these crimes before they happened. Every attempt had been returned Mailer-Daemoned.

"Goddammit."

Okay, eleven tonight one of the convenience stores would be hit. So, which one?

There weren't that many in New Carthage simply because New Carthage was a small town, maybe three in the area and within a couple of miles of one another. It shouldn't be all that hard to stop whoever it was who had plans for the evening.

And how the hell did whoever was contacting him know about this stuff? They were in on the crimes? They knew who was pulling them (though different people were captured every time he'd figured out the correct location)? They were directing them and playing a game with Robin to see if he could be outsmarted?

This was staring to get on his nerves.

He opened the e-mail again and hit reply, hit cancel and opened his saved e-mail button. None of the ones from Urfriend were there. He opened his trash file. None there. He opened his sent file and, again, nothing. Everything else was; the paper he'd e-mailed to his Finance prof was there, the note he'd sent Alfred asking not to send him any more cookies because he couldn't resist eating the entire box, the birthday e-card he'd sent Donna—everything else was right where it should have been, except for the stuff from his mystery correspondent.

Maybe Yahoo was screwing up again with his account but they didn't explain the e-mails themselves. This was getting seriously annoying.

By ten forty-five that night he'd checked out the Seven-Eleven, Shell gas station with attached mini-mart and the Kwickie-Mart next to the campus. He'd installed small, temporary security cameras with the feed going directly to his own system and so was ready when the car load of three kids—maybe nineteen or twenty years old, from the looks of them—pulled up, hoodies hiding part of their faces and went inside to rob the cashier working alone.

Landing lightly beside the running car, he reached in through the driver's window. "You don't mind if I borrow these, do you?" And pulled out the keys, elbowing the driver hard enough to take him out of commission before tying his hands and making sure he was firmly connected to the steering wheel.

Next he quietly walked in the front door, turned a flip which took him to the register, a well placed foot disarming the leader and a stern look enough to cow the remaining idiot. Calling the local police, he was finished in under ten minutes and on his way home, promises of stopping by the station house to fill out the paperwork accepted by the patrolmen.

Unable to resist, he checked his laptop. One e-mail. One work; 'Good.'.

Shaking his head he stripped off his uniform, took a quick shower against the house rules of no running water after eleven. Finally he was able to settle in to finishing those chemistry problems he'd been putting off. Around one AM he gave in and checked his e-mail one last time before turning in.

The fourth item on the list was a message from Urfriend. The single sentence read; 'Fire at Stop and Shop market, 1:58 AM.'

It was one thirty-nine. The store was five miles away across town. Changing back into Robin, he was at the supermarket with four minutes to spare. Checking the perimeter of the structure he found an incendirary in the dumpster used for cardboard, the rolling container pushed against the wooden building and just starting to smolder with the smell of spilled gasoline strong.

Using his Bat-fire-extinguisher, he had the almost fire out and done in seconds. Two minutes later, it would have been another story.

Later, back in his room he checked again. One e-mail from Urfriend; 'Good.'

He had no idea who he was dealing with.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

He was still trying to figure out who'd sent and was sending his the e-mails the next day on his way to class. Okay, they could have gotten his e-mail address from the Hudson student directory, it wouldn't have even been difficult. It was common knowledge that every student, faculty member, every staff member was issued one and there were stacks sitting in the Student Commons, free for the taking. Anyone could have gotten it and it was something he was going to talk to the administration about—or have Lucius or one of Bruce's lawyers deal with. Security risk, y'think?

The return address, that was another thing which made no sense. If the sender had used a public computer in the library, a computer lab or in some internet cafe or something, it should have still arrived at it's destination, even if it wasn't opened.

The e-mails came from someone's computer, be it personal or a public one. There should be an electronic trail but he could find nothing and that made no sense.

Okay, maybe there was some way to do that, to send e-mail and have it 'disappear' but he'd never heard of it and while he didn't pretend to be a computer genius, he wasn't illiterate, either.

The other sixty-four dollar question was how did this person know that Dick Grayson could do anything about whatever the problem du jour happened to be? Okay, if they'd figured out that Grayson equaled Robin then a whole 'nother can of worms had been opened up, one he'd really rather not have to deal with.

Bruce would kill him, for starters.

And since, at the very least there was a serious security breech, he had to think.

Go through what he knew piece by piece and think. 'Go through this as many times as it took and think really hard.

Attack the pieces of the puzzle one by one, figure them out, see how they fit together and then look at the picture they formed.

*A few weeks ago some unknown person or persons had stared sending him e-mails, emails sent to his private account under his real name. The e-mails were meant for Robin and concerned advanced warnings of crimes before they happened with specific details always included.

*Place and date and time—down to the minute—were always included.

*Whoever sent the information knew, seemingly immediately, whether or not he'd succeeded in stopping whatever was about to happen and commented on it within minutes of his accomplishing the deed.

And who did he know who would do something like this? Maybe it was some kind of a joke. Okay, maybe not _exactly _a joke, but something to keep him on his toes, make him wonder what was going on. It was _possible_ that one of his friends was running some kind of a number on him, wasn't it?

Roy? It was the kind of thing he'd find funny but it seemed like too much work for him and he wouldn't have any idea about crimes before they happened...

Wally? Donna? Garth? He ruled them out. This wasn't their kind of thing and they all knew better than to believe that he'd find anything amusing about this. It wasn't one of them.

Barbara might have the computer skills and even, possibly, the inside knowledge to be aware of crimes being planned but—no. He loved the woman, or would if she'd let him but, truth be told, she didn't have all that much of a sense of humor. And he didn't think that she'd go to this much trouble just to make him look bad. It just didn't gel with him.

No, it wasn't any of them.

One of Bruce's weirder tests? Maybe, but it seemed unlikely. Bruce wanted Dick Grayson to do well at college, it wouldn't make sense for him to throw this kind of distraction in the way.

If whoever was e-mailing him was responsible for the crimes, working with some ring or maybe just hiring people to work some kind of a set up...

But why?

It would be easy enough to embarrass Robin if that was the goal and that didn't make sense. Why set up crimes and then tell him where and when they'd happen so he could stop them?

Set up the crimes and _not_ tell him, that would make more sense.

Was someone looking for a job with Wayne Corp? Did they want to join the Titans?

"Mister Grayson, I had to interrupt your daydream this morning, but I assume that with your resources you had no trouble coming up with an outline explaining the benefits and limitations as well as the liabilities of large corporate charity giving?"

Dick pulled the hard copy of his paper out of his backpack and handed it to the professor. Thank god he'd called Lucius last week and had Wayne Corp's charitable file faxed to him.

"Call dad's hirelings to send you the information, Mr. Grayson?"

"I didn't do anything anyone with the same assignment couldn't have done, sir. All I did was make a couple of phone calls and then work with the raw data."

"I suggested nothing to the contrary. I merely wonder if Mister Allendale beside you would have had the same response to a cold call as you did. Or, for that matter, if he'd have the number to call."

Bite me. "I'd be happy to redo the assignment using a different company if you'd like, sir."

The professor didn't quite laugh. "No need. However, should I suspect that this is, in any way, not entirely your own effort beyond the raw data, I'll be speaking with you, Mr. Grayson. Now, if everyone could make sure that your papers are on my desk when you leave..."

Jerk.

The day was downhill from there.

Walking back to the rooming house he heard the music out on the sidewalk. Loud music. Loud music played so high that the sound was distorting. Loud, distorted Grateful Dead music. The landlady was in the front hall and grabbed his arm the second she saw him, shouting at him to _**TURN THAT OFF!**_

He followed the din to his room, unlocked the door and was almost physically assaulted by a solid wall of sound—or so it seemed. 'Truckin' was playing, full on. Dick didn't even own any Dead music. He hit eject but the music kept playing. He hit pause. It kept playing. He hit stop. It kept playing. Finally he pulled the plug—it kept playing for a good twenty seconds after power was cut and Dick had the distinct feeling it was a 'F-U' at a hundred and fifty decibels.

Th CD, a compilation of the Dead's greatest hits, slowly ejected from the machine, hopped out of the holder, fell to the carpeted floor and shattered into at least twenty pieces.

What the hell?

Picking up the largest on, he sliced his finger.

"That's going to need stitches." It was his landlady, still annoyed about the music malfunction but softening slightly at the sight of blood.

"It's okay."

"Stitches. I'll drive you; no sense in having the high and mighty Mister Wayne coming up here to ask why his son was bleeding while I did nothing but watch and worry about stains on the rug."

Oh yeah, she was still pissed.

"I'm fine and I have a first aid kit. Thank you and I'm sorry about the noise."

She was clearly not satisfied. "I tried to get in here myself to shut off that racket but my key didn't work—if you've changed the lock..."

"I didn't, I swear." Disbelief. "Here, check the key yourself, mine is exactly the same as yours."

"All right but you take care of that cut. No reason to get infected just because you're stubborn."

"I won't, I promise." He knew injuries enough to know that this was minor in the scheme of things and the bleeding would stop on it's own in a couple of minutes. She started out the door. "Excuse me, but has anyone—a friend of mine or anyone been in here while I was at class or something?"

"You know better than to think that I'd let someone into a student's room without their permission—I'd have a sight of trouble with the police if I let people in and out of rooms willy-nilly."

"I know, 'just thought I'd ask. 'Sorry."

"Make sure that you get that boom box or record player or whatever it was fixed, too. I run a nice house here and I won't put up with..."

"I know, and I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, I promise."

The door finally closed, Dick wrapping a Kleenex absently around the sliced hand while he checked the room for possible signs of forced entry, finding none. The window was still locked, the door hadn't been jimmied, there were no secret passages in the closet of the heating vent. Whoever got in to mess with everything must have had a key and he seriously doubted that his sweet (well, mostly sweet) little old lady landlady was the culprit.

Had someone stolen the key, picked the lock? He wasn't ready to consider teleporting in quite yet, but maybe he should.

That's when he saw the light blinking on his laptop, the one he'd left turned off, put away and in it's carrying case beside his desk when he went to class.

It was now on the desk, sitting opened and powered up, screen lit and missed in the recent melee. He clicked on his mailbox and opened the one from Urfriend.

'Drug deal. New Carthage Elementary school. 10:42 PM.'

Who the hell had gotten into his room and how?

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

He'd gotten to the elementary school in time. The drug dealers were there, parked under a tree in the lot, standing in dappled orange light from a streetlamp behind the branches.

There were four armed dealers and three armed buyers and Robin watched as they transferred several dozen plastic wrapped bricks from one SUV to another. Clearly this was a bit more than a small time exchange.

It took him all of seven minutes to shut them down, call in the local police to make the pick up and agree to go down to the station the next day to fill out the required paperwork. He was back in his room within forty minutes from the time he'd left.

On his desk his laptop, again left closed, put away in it's case and sitting on the floor was now on his bed, opened, on and he had mail.

'Good.'

He knocked on the door next to his. "Hey, Steve, anyone stop by my room in the last few minutes?"

"Nope. Gotta finish this report, 'later."

No sign of forced entry. No one had seen or heard anyone in his room in the last forty-five minutes

This was getting on his last nerve.

Frustrated, he opted for a shower to try to sooth whatever parts of him (internal or otherwise) needed soothing. Returning to his locked room, damp towel wrapped around his nether regions, he found the laptop now closed, back in it's case and sitting where it had been earlier in the evening on the floor by his desk.

Dammit. F4rustrated but suspecting what he was about to see, he opened the e-mail.

_'Good.'_

Knowing it was pointless, he hit reply;

"_Who are you?"_ then hit send. He shook his head, knowing it was stupid but needing to do _something_. Drying himself off, he found clean clothes, noticed that he really needed to either do laundry or but some new stuff, he reached for his knapsack to get out the econ book he needed for that quiz they'd been promised for tomorrow. Straightening up, he saw that he had another e-mail from Urfriend and, happy to delay economics another twenty seconds, opened the thing.

"_Who do you _think_ I am?"_

No, not what he expected. "_You tell me."_

No reply and then his computer shut down by itself.

This was getting curiouser and curiouser but he still had that econ thing to study for and he was used to compartmentalizing his life, he'd been doing it since he could walk. Lying down on the bed, book in hand, he went through chapters three through five, paying special attention to the study questions at the end of each section. And hour and a half later, his understanding of the theories of Adam Smith and his friends. Glancing across the room he wasn't too surprised to see that his laptop's screen was lit up again. Sighing, he went to look.

He had mail from Urfriend. Of course he did.

"_Who do you _think_ I am?"_

"_One of my friends? A Titan?"_

"_Think." _The reply was instantaneous, faster than even Wally could type.

"_You know who I am. We've worked together."_

"_Think."_

"_You're trying to help me. Why?"_

"_Think."_

"_How long have we known each other?"_

"_Try harder. Think."_

Dick shook his head. Who the fuck _was _this? There were ways to gain outside control of someone's computer, to do it remotely somehow. He knew this—didn't know how, but he knew it was possible. Whoever was on the other end had figured that out. When you called for tech support, sometimes they had to do that to fix whatever was wrong with your computer or connection or something.

"_Are you a computer tech, have experience with it?"_

"_THINK." _

His hands were poised over the keys but before Dick could formulate a response his machine powered down, the conversation finished, at least for now.

Who did he know who could gain control of someone's computer without the owner's cooperation?Barbara could. Bruce, of course. He wouldn't put it past Alfred's abilities if he had a reason to but this didn't seem like his style; he'd probably think that the co-opting of someone else's possession was rude.

Who else? It had to be someone who knew that Dick Grayson was Robin. So—some of the JLA members, sure, but why would any of these people bother? If any of them had a lead on a case they could simply pick up the phone and call him without all this game playing.

Maybe someone was playing with him, maybe that was the answer; trying to put him in his place or something like that. It could happen, right? If he'd annoyed someone, even someone who he worked with, it could happen. If someone thought that he was arrogant, maybe had taken some attention without realizing he was stepping on someone's toes? Heroes or not, they were still human (okay, maybe not exactly _human_, but close enough).

So—who had he pissed off lately? Well, who had he pissed off who knew him personally? Drawing a blank and getting a frustration headache, he opted an Advil and a patrol through campus and the town to clear his head. With any luck he'd find some bad guys to arrest on his own without the damn e-mails to lead him to a site like a seeing eye dog.

After he'd changed into his uniform and left the room his laptop came back to life, a message appeared that he had mail then powered itself back to sleep mode.

Three hours later Robin silently entered Dick Grayson's room undetected. The patrol had been uneventful, quiet and he had to fight the idea that it was boring, forcing himself to remember that he loved flying through the air, loved jump-lining, loved being outside and free as the proverbial bird at night and loved his job. Never mind that he was halfway to hypothermia, he'd torn a callus on his hand from a frayed section of rope and he still hadn't shaken the headache. What he needed was another clandestine shower and maybe a phone call to Lori, his new girlfriend.

He changed out of his uniform, pulled his jeans and a sweater back on then froze when he saw his monitor letting him know that he had mail.

He clicked the icon.

"_Brandon."_

That was it, the entire message.

Last name or first name?

Who was Brandon? Was Brandon a who or a what? If Brandon was a person—wait, _was_ Brandon a person? Could Brandon be a dog or the name of a rock band? Maybe Brandon was the name of a novel or it's author. The name of a boat? Maybe Brandon meant something in another language and, if so, which language?

He had no idea and so decided to take a shot.

"_Who's Brandon?"_

"_Brandon."_

"_Who's Brandon?"_

"_Think."_

"_Are you Brandon?"_

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

**Conclusion**

"Who the fuck is Brandon?"

Dick searched his brain and came up blank. He didn't know anyone with that name. He didn't even know _of _anyone with that name. No one he knew from school, no one he knew socially, no one he'd ever arrested, no one he'd heard about in the papers or on the news. He was completely blank.

He pulled up Google search and typed in the name.

There were a few towns named Brandon. It was a man's name, of course, but no one of any real importance seemed to be tagged with it. "The name Brandon is a baby boy name. The name Brandon comes from the Irish origin. In Irish The meaning of the name Brandon is: **Variant of Brendan: Prince, or brave. Some scholars believe Brendan means 'stinking hair'.** "

Real helpful. Not.

His favorite was from Urban Dictionary: _brandon , __a guy with a huge dick_

_Man that guys a Brandon_

"Yuh, okay, fine, but I can't see how that connects with this." Keep looking.

Next he pulled up the student directory, putting in a search for any student, faculty member or member of the staff with either the first or last name of Brandon. The results showed twenty-one current hits.

He discounted the ten emeritus professors who were probably too old to be able to do any of the stuff he was dealing with. "I may have to revisit this, but for now, let's cross them off. 'The faculty and students who are away on sabbaticals or overseas as exchange students. That brings us down to three students or whatever named Brandon. Okay..."

He pulled out his copy of the student directory, locating all three of the Brandons.

Brandon number one was a senior majoring in Physics, a member of the Phi Nu frat. His GPU was 3.7 and his home address was somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania in one of the rich suburbs of Philadelphia. After Googling him, found that he'd been accepted at Columbia grad school which he'd be starting next fall. Oh, and he was an eagle scout, he was engaged to a student at Barnard in New York, no wedding set. No arrest record, the worse thing Dick could find about him was that he'd received (and paid for) a parking ticket three years ago. He was a life guard during the summer at a camp for disabled children and he volunteered his time at the student crisis center, manning the phones on weekends.

He was a candidate for sainthood.

Brandon number two had taken a leave of absence from school three weeks ago because he'd been offered a high paying job on an oil rig off the coast of California.

Brandon number three was semi-interesting, He had a small arrest record for minor stuff; a misdemeanor charge of having two marijuana cigarettes. A couple of moving violations, a fender bender, some small time shoplifting. His grades weren't too good, his GPA was a dismal 1.7 and he was on probation because of it. There was something wonky about his scholarship, too. For starters, he'd lost it and not because of his crummy grades. There were some kind of 'altercations' with fellow football players a year or so ago which caused him to be tossed off the team, though it looked like the details had been covered up.

Some more digging would be a good idea on this guy and he could very well be the culprit. It made sense. The guy seemed like a loser who had a talent for minor scrapes.

But he didn't fit the profile Dick had privately worked up in his head; Brandon 3 didn't seem like he'd have the capability to rig a computer to pay the kind of parlor tricks his laptop had been performing the lately. He was more of a small time thug and bully than a funky boy scout helping strangers out of the goodness of his heart.

It just didn't fit and, even if it did, how the hell did he know that Dick Grayson was Robin and why would he want to help. He seemed more the type to want to go the blackmail route than wanting to become his silent partner and helpmate.

Clicking on another link he nodded. Brandon 3 had transferred to a community college close to his hometown, five hundred miles from New Carthage.

Strike three. Okay, so Brandon might not be a Hudson U person.

Next he did the obvious and checked the New Carthage area phone book. Without a last name (and he was assuming that Brandon was a first name—never assume), he was limited but tried anyway. There were four Brandon's listed;

Brandon's Bakery. Family owned for thirty-seven years.

Brandon's Child Care. Loving, safe and affordable care when you need it.

Brandon's Home Repair. No job too small.

Brandon's Tires. 24 hour road service.

Yeah. Probably not.

Glancing at his clock he swore and grabbed his knapsack; he had class in fifteen minutes and it would take him that long to walk to the Math building. He turned to leave the room and caught sight of his laptop, once again magically on his desk, opened and on. It was what he expected:

"_Robbery, Ken's Jewelers. 7:48 PM."_

He hit reply._ "Who's Brandon?"_

The computer logged off.

After class, after he stopped the two teenagers who tried to rob the strip mall jewelry store and after Robin had patrolled New Carthage, Dick Grayson was carrying his take out hamburger and fries into the boarding house. He saw his landlady wiping her hands and coming down the stairs.

"Hey, Mrs. Hart, do you know anyone named Brandon?"

"Why do you ask?"

"No real reason, just wondering."

"Who's asking?"

She knew him. Or she knew someone with the name; it was as close to a real answer as he'd been able to find. "Me."

"Don't talk in circles with me, young man. Why do you want to know? Has something happened to him?" She was concerned, bordering on angry. "Well, are you going to answer me or just stand there?"

"I, I just wondered if you knew who he is, that's all."

"Because...?"

"Because he's been e-mailing me and I don't know who he is, that's all."

"That's all?" Mrs. Hart's face softened just a bit. "So he's been at it again."

Dick stared. "He's done this to other people? Who_ is_ he?"

She sighed, a little sadly. "Brandon is...Brandon."

"But..."

"What, has he been bothering you?"

"Like I said, he's been e-mailing me and it's sort of weird stuff." To say the least.

She nodded. "Have you seen him yet, spoken with him face to face?" He shook his head. "Well, don't be surprised if he knocks on your door one of these days."

This was getting seriously creepy. Who _was _this guy? "Why would he do that? It's not like he knows me or anything."

"He used to live in the room you're renting. It was a couple of years ago, I guess, he was a student at the college, just like you. He was a lot like you, come to think of it, polite and good manners—looked a lot like you, same coloring and he was smart like you, too. He didn't have a lot of money, though, he was different that way but he worked, he was a hard worker."

"Was?" No response. "What do you mean he was? Did he leave school or something?"

"He left, yes. He ran out of money, that's what he told me and I know that his family was having some pretty bad money problems. His dad lost his job and then his mother was downsized so there was no help from his parents or whoever. Sad—he loved school, loved learning and wanted to go all they way; grad school and then get a really good job so he'd never have to worry about things like the rent. That's what he told me, anyway."

"Why didn't he get loans or a scholarship?"

"He did, like I said, he was a hard worker but it wasn't enough and he had to drop out. He said it was just for a while until he saved enough to come back." She paused. "That's what he said."

"But he didn't come back?"

"No, he did." She sat on the straight backed chair next to the small table she put her boarders mail on. "He showed up about a year after he left, wanting his room back but I'd rented it to another student and didn't have anything empty for him. He was nice about it, 'told me he understood. After that he'd stop in now and then to say hello. He was a sweet boy, thoughtful."

There was a shoe waiting to drop.

"So what happened to him, is he back in school?"

"In a way, I suppose he is."

Dick knew he wasn't or his student search would have turned him up. "What way?"

"I suppose he still likes it here, that's all. He likes it and so he stays."

"Mrs. Hart..."

"You have to understand that he's a sweet boy, he just hasn't found his place yet."

This was getting strange, even stranger than his laptop becoming a self-directing entity. "Mrs. Hart, what's going on." Dick knew what she was going to say, he just needed to hear it.

"He was driving to a job he had, making sandwiches at a deli and there was an accident. I'm not sure, I think a drunk driver ran a stop sign and, you know..."

"He was killed, wasn't he?"

"He loved it here so." Her face had a gentle smile. "He still likes to come back now and then."

7/31/10


End file.
